


Raison D'être

by CocksAndClocks



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Darkfic, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Minor Qrow Branwen/Ozpin, Qrow is still a bandit, Self-Harm, Unhappy Ending, Violence, Whump, body swap timey wimey stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 14:30:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20818853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CocksAndClocks/pseuds/CocksAndClocks
Summary: Qrow, a young bandit, harbors a crush on the tribe's chief strategist who goes missing...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended reading song: “Every Other Freckle” by Alt-J
> 
> Please mind the tags.

The left freckle under his eye – that was Qrow's favorite. That little speck always accentuated his moods: the twinkle in his eye when he found something exciting, resolution when he handed out orders before a raid, the secretive smile Qrow swore he saw when he thought Qrow wasn't looking.

It was so subtle - only a single twitch of his lip - always the right side. Qrow loved that smirk even more than the freckle. And so he sat precariously against his perch, arms and legs crossed, admiring those full lips, hungrily awaiting their gentle upturn no one else seemed to notice.

"Branwen..." Qrow heard softly from those lips, just like he'd dreamed so many times when Qrow planted possessive kisses along his neck... collar bone... chest...

Qrow was grinning like a fool before he knew what he was doing.

"Qrow! Damn it, pay attention!" The harsh tone snapped the boy out of his fantasy with a shock strong enough he lost his balance.

"Wha?" Qrow shook his head attempting composure. Sorta.

*

"Did you hear _anything_ I said in the last ten minutes?"

"Nope," Qrow grinned.

The older man glowered at Qrow. If he weren't so useful, the bandit tribe would have deserted him long ago for his foolishness. If he weren't so charismatic, the man would have let them.

Favoritism aside, he often couldn't decide whether he wanted to throttle Qrow or run off on another night adventure with him.

Qrow never could sit still. At sixteen, he had a lot of growing up to do. Thank the gods Qrow listened to him.

_Most of the time._

The man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Branwen, my tent. Everyone else, you know what to do."

Murmurs broke out as everyone shuffled into their squads, preparing for their mission.

Except Qrow, who practically sprouted a tail, wagging it with happiness as he trailed after the strategist.

No one else dared fawn over him so – 

So _obviously._ So deliberately. So... persuasively.

Qrow was going to be a whole other kind of trouble for the man in a few years. He could feel it with every fiber of his being. He knew he'd spent years taking Qrow's skills and loyalty for granted. He knew he relied too heavily on the boy to keep others in line - but he _did_ hold the leash on the tribe's greatest rabid animal and he would have been a fool not to use that to his advantage, especially given the man's slight form. Sure, he could fight, but not like Qrow. Then again Qrow - as well as the rest of the tribe - seemed to lack his sense of reason of what was best, in any given situation. 

Still, he knew one day it was going to bite him in the ass when Qrow demanded more. Penance for all he'd given the man. But for now, just for now, he would continue to look after the boy as he always had and use him how he knew he could. As his one true _friend_.

"Qrow, have a seat." 

He gestured to a wooden stump covered in lavish furs. There were perks to being near the top of the food chain in the tribe: your own tent, the best supplies - but it was a lot of work. 

Especially after picking personal preferences, protecting the boy in his tent from those outside.

Qrow grinned again, fluffing the furs at the edges and plopping in the center. The man knew makeshift nest was Qrow's favorite - he did this every time he was allowed to sit in it - one quick circle, rearrange the edges, pull the center up nice and high, only to destroy it with a careless flop. Why he bothered wasting the time to prepare its demise the man would never know. It was simply another of the boy's oddities.

He had so many.

But perhaps that was part of his charm -

"Qrow," the man said again, this time gently now that they were safely out of earshot of the tribe. The strategist knew he couldn't hide his favoritism from Qrow, but the boy had the decency never to comment.

He waited patiently as Qrow wrangled his attention from the chair to the man before him.

"Yeah?"

When had Qrow's voice stopped cracking? He almost sounded like a man now.

"What was it this time?"

The boy shrugged, eyes roaming to the ground, the tent ceiling, _anywhere_ but to his commander.

"Just daydreamin'."

"About?"

"Stuff."

The man sighed, his hammock mimicking the sound as he sank into the cloth.

"Qrow, if you're planning a prank during the mission, I need to know."

"Ah - I... uh. No - not yet anyway."

"Not _ever_, you mean?" the man asked hopefully, then shook his head correcting himself with and unwilling chuckle. "_Should_ mean."

The boy replied with a grin. Always the thorn of excitement in the strategist's side. There were countless theories floating through the camp on Qrow's motivations in life. Most were simple: to wreak havoc, to cause anarchy... some were more sinister: mutiny, murder...

Yet never once did the boy make an attempt for the power the man offered.

Perhaps he knew they were traps? Perhaps he knew he was being tested?

Perhaps he simply didn't care about that shit like everyone else.

As complex as Qrow seemed, the man suspected he was quite simple: he liked to have fun and didn't like being bored.

And it usually >em>was fun until he went too far, like when the tribe barely abandoned camp before the Atlas military gunned it down, chasing after them for two weeks.

Come later he found out Qrow had stolen their specialty liquor supply.

It was excellent liquor mind you, but still not worth risking everyone's lives and forcing yet another nomadic journey. They'd just planted their seasonal crops too.

No... amusing as he was, Qrow always came with a price. That price was perhaps the most significant reason everyone disliked the boy.

His recklessness was an uncontrollable storm - even while he was behaving.

It was almost as if he were cursed. Those rumors had spread before he was even able to speak - nothing more than a toddler with a stick. _Cursed. Cursed like a crow._

And so his namesake stuck.

No one could remember if he'd once had a birth name. It was always Qrow, the harbinger of ill fortune.

_The harbinger of thrill with occasional repercussions_, he preferred.

"I need you to behave on this one, Qrow."

"What do I get?"

"The honor of not feeling my wrath."

"What if I like your wrath?"

"Qrow," he warned. The boy really was like a puppy - loyal to only one master, but so attached he was willing to do anything for attention. Including using the camp as his personal playpen if only to get in trouble.

At least he heeded the warning. _This time,_ the man acknowledged once Qrow surrendered both of his hands to the air in defense.

He wondered if there would be a day the boy would stop listening.

Likely the day he stopped receiving special treatment. And so the cycle continued, ever binding them closer.

"I promise," Qrow swore to him. "Best behavior, _sir_."

He couldn't help teasing, could he? Even when offering his word - which he never broke to this day no matter the personal cost. He couldn't resist. Just as the man couldn't resist the annoying upturn of the right corner of his lip.

_Sir._

It made him sound so... so old. Qrow knew he hated it, yet everyone called him that. 

_Sir._ Out of respect, or fear, it didn't matter, it was never the same out of Qrow's mouth. Never as serious, never as disdainful; which was likely from growing up together. After all, the strategist was a mere three years' Qrow's senior, but their personalities had forced them on dramatically different paths: one a leader, one an outcast.

Still. 

Qrow had always done just enough to please the superiors growing up. Just enough to survive, always flirting with crossing that damn invisible line.

It had to be the most crooked line in history the way Qrow drew it.

"What will I do with you?" the man mused.

*

_Be mine..._ Qrow filled in mentally. Some day. No matter what it took. He'd give up everything in a heartbeat if he had to -

It was only ever him. _He_ never feared Qrow, never shunned him, never turned him away. Never abandoned him…

The woods had reached below freezing for the first time that fall night over a decade ago. The tribe was on a nomadic search for their next location – move with the seasons, that’s how you survive – when the elders separated for a hunt. The few left behind, including Raven and the man before him, gathered supplies, the adults nestling Qrow deep in the nook of an ancient willow with twisted roots so grand they shielded him from any dangers.

He always made too much noise for the game, they said.

The hunger bit at him first; it had been a day since they shared rations with the youth, the adults oversharing amongst themselves to prepare for the hunt. Qrow could recall the knots his stomach turned as he waited patiently in his cage, clamping his knees to his chest to quiet his growling stomach in case any Grimm were nearby.

The Grimm always seemed to follow him.

The cold was next, and it came more ravenous than the hunger. As the daylight diminished, his limbs began to tremble, his fingertips transforming into blue claws.

That was when he realized they were never coming back. That was when he’d fought back, desperate nails tearing at the damp dirt beneath him frantic to free him of his wooden cage. But nothing worked. Hands, arms, mind numb, he began to succumb.

That’s when the roots burst into flame, eager youthful hands wrenching him from the danger, warming him in stolen furs, cradling Qrow until he regained his senses. They’d spent the night together like that – in silence, comforting each other, both bereaved among orphans.

By the time the two had located the tribe again – which wasn’t difficult despite Qrow being the _loud_ one – they were in awe. The cursed and the weak transformed into the ultimate survivors of the night.

No one spoke to them as they stumbled, arms wrapped possessively around one another, into their tent, the tribe’s welcome as chill as the dark they’d fought together.

Indeed, Qrow owed the young man his life, and so he willingly devoted it to the strategist.

_He_ came back for the four-year-old. Two kids. Surviving in the woods.

_Well we earned our fucking stripes, didn't we?_

With his plans and Qrow's skills, the pair became unstoppable. Although it was always business; business being survival. They both knew it would be hard - maybe impossible without the other. But that is what made that thing that they always called...

Shit, what was it?

_Loyalty?_

Yeah, that.

Qrow had never had that from anyone except _him_. And he could tell why everyone was always demanding it. It was addicting. A drug.

_Trust._ That shit was addicting too.

Yep, Qrow Branwen would do whatever it took for the man before him even if it meant slaughtering the whole tribe.

"When will we be done...?" _...with the tribe? ...with this game._ Qrow couldn't wait. Didn't want to wait.

"Soon," the man replied.

"Then?"

"We'll leave."

_Together,_ Qrow finished.

"I'll see you on the field, Branwen."

Qrow nodded, rising tall, the weight of shedding his collar freeing him to prepare for battle.

*

"After the raid then," Qrow bowed his head to his superior, the older man critiquing his form as the light bounced from broadened edges.

_When had he become so tall? Perhaps it was the perspective? _

_No… Qrow might be taller than him now._

Qrow had that effect, brightening dark spaces, a trait he had always admired. _Charisma_, he reasoned. Certainly not for the tribe, no. But for him, and for him it was enough.

The heavy tent cover sealed the structure shut in solitude upon the boy's exit. Already the tent seemed to transition from day to night - that damned flap separating the man from his light.

Oscar Pine hated working in the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended reading song: “One Way or Another” by Until the Ribbon Breaks 
> 
> Please mind the tags.

Two weeks.

Two weeks was all it took for the tribe to force Qrow out, abandoning him to the starved wild, to the beasts of darkness. The event hadn’t been pretty, but he hadn’t expected it to be. Honestly, he was surprised he had lasted that long; then again, in order to desert someone, he must first be present…

Two weeks before, after the raid dust settled, after the tribe had safely scattered in their usual teams, Qrow waited for Oscar at their designated perch on the tallest tree from which they would satisfy a morbid curiosity observing the Grimm scavenge in their wake.

Qrow reached their designated post first, settling in against the small alcove in a damp redwood. The first few hours passed quickly, adrenaline from the raid running clock hands ragged. The next few hours stirred new emotion: apprehension. Come next morning, the loneliness and anxiety crept in, overcoming the man with each drag of his nails across his arms for warmth, each ragged breath crystalized in morning dew. Blood trickled down to his fingertips in his firmly crossed arms, the crimson a harsh contrast to his pale blue nail beds. He wiped the stream on his sleeve knowing should it fall to the ground, the Grimm beneath him would stir, targeting next prey yet unsatisfied with the rubble from the raid.

Had the night shifted to day again? Qrow had lost count.

Awake, painfully so, Qrow waited until he saw only black trees - black snow tipped trees with red eyes waiting to devour him the moment he slipped up. One false move, one moment of weakness, would seal his fate.

And he was so tired. So very fucking tired he almost believed the forest really was black. 

Maybe there really was snow streaked in tiny moving droplets of blood.

*

Qrow needed sleep. The days since Oscar's disappearance all blended together, each magnifying the hopelessness of the last; he'd been on the move for too long, body growing ragged from restless nights. He needed sleep.

Haze blurred days, possibly weeks, together, Qrow no longer certain when he’d purged free of the hungry forest, nor how he’d scaled the jagged boulders beneath his feet. Heavy eyes cast up the mountain he knew harbored a vantage point – if only he could just surmount it.

A deaf crack, a subtle shift of rock beneath foot, sent the man tumbling down the cliff side.

He knew he could rest once he touched the cave at the top of the mountain.

But he'd been climbing for hours. 

Or had it been days? He couldn’t recall.

Regardless, if he made it to the cave - _once_ he made it to the cave - he would be able to find _him_. He'd finally have the vantage point he would need to find _him_.

A last thud, a _crack_ and Qrow's limp body settled on the plateau of the nearest alcove.

His limbs agonized with each little twitch of each little fiber, the dust flooding his nostrils, and his lungs, from the sudden final impact.

He could get up. He _had_ to get up. For Oscar. 

If Oscar were alive, alone -

Qrow would find him. No matter what.

Qrow inhaled breathlessly, the succession of coughs and sharp pain in his side screaming he’d bruised something, a moist hand confirming when he saw red.

The wound wasn’t lethal, but irritating - a literal thorn in the side with each intake.

_Great._

This was going haunt with him for weeks. Ironically, when Qrow left the tribe, it was because he didn't want to be alone, but this sure as hell wasn't the kind of company he’d wished for.

A heavy sigh cleared dust from parched lungs, dry eyes threatening floods to clear his vision.

He needed a break.

_Wait!_

The flood pooled in his eyes in instant regret. Qrow knew better. All his life, he knew better than to wish for something… anything really. In rain, he’d wish for sun and be rewarded in wildfire; in desert, he’d wish for drink, only to find the ocean. Now if he wished for a break, he knew he’d only fall further, possibly to the rocky base of the mountain, broken on the floor of the dark forest once again.

He didn't need yet another reminder of how speech can be taken so fucking literal.

A heave, a wince, and a curse roused Qrow from the hardened stone ground, an unsteady balance colliding his head with the nearest boulder.

"GOD DAMN IT! WILL YOU JUST FUCKING STOP?!" he bellowed at the cheerful sky, mocking his mood.

Crows above head mocked his demand, circling drawn to his energy. His _luck_.

_Lucky bastards. At least they could fly._

Qrow spat a mouth full of blood at them, watching as it fell short only to rain down on the young man once more.

He'd always hated his namesake. He knew he was supposed to. It was meant as a constant warning - _stay away_ it warned. _Ostracize him. Save yourself._

As a boy, he'd heard whispers, deceptively soft whispers, from the tribe. Whispers to quiet him; whispers potting to be rid of him; whispers to kill him in his sleep. Only then they'd have to deal with Oscar and no one seemed desperate enough to risk loss of their chief strategist – the very one that kept them alive through the thick of hostilities.

It must have seemed a fair trade: survival for masses for the burden of one. So they stomached Qrow, tolerating his existence to the barest of definition (Raven included). Qrow had long ago accepted his twin, his blood, whom shared the deepest connection to him – didn’t give two shits about his existence. The bitch even gave suggestions how to ditch the “dead weight.”

No, if they lost their precious chief strategist, the tribe would be in trouble. Then again, they just had so Qrow was well versed in what to expect next.

That was probably why he never bothered returning those first few weeks – he was safer in the woods with the Grimm.

"CAW!" 

A crow teased him, pulling him back to the present, responding to his threat of blood with a thick gooey film which coated Qrow in random flecks. 

The man bit back, spite and rage fueling him now. Gods be damned, Qrow was going to get to the top of this fucking mountain and ring all of their tiny little necks.

They'd probably taste decent cooked over an open fire, he wagered. Hell, he was willing to eat them raw at this point.

And so he climbed; he climbed until he couldn't lift his blistered and bloodied hands above his head; he climbed until he could only move inches at a time, each new crack an eminent threat to his foolishly optimistic progress; he climbed -

A heavy thud knocked the wind from Qrow's chest.

_Had he made it?_

_Had he fallen again?_

Energy sapping to the dirt beneath him, Qrow wasn't sure he cared what the answer was anymore.

He was simply too exhausted.

Consciousness drifting, Qrow replayed his last conversation with Oscar over and over again.

_"When will we be done?"_

_"Soon."_

_"Then?"_

_"We'll leave."_

Qrow had always assumed it meant _together._

It had to.

It _had_ to.

Something happened to him.

It _had_ to.

A drop of rain slid down Qrow's cheek, the young man taking solace in the sudden melancholy weather. He thought about wiping it away, but found the dead of his form indistinguishable from the cold rigid rocks beneath him. Instead, he looked to the clear skies and cursed.

_He had to find Oscar._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended reading song: “Hurts Like Hell” by Fleurie 
> 
> Please mind the tags.

The gentle morning freeze ebbed, surrendering to spring rays creeping above the Beacon Academy dormitories. A chill ran down the surveyor’s spine, another biting reminder he had not yet succumbed to the comfort of death, his breath forming thick clouds with each shallow exhale.

Countless nights Qrow had speculated what had become of Oscar Pine, each painted scene worse than the one before, and yet never once had Qrow thought the answer was so simple: he’d left. 

Quit the tribe, quit the bandit life, quit…Qrow. And yet there he was – strolling impossibly casually towards the farthest reach of the Academy walls to the bench beneath Qrow’s evergreen perch.

It had been seven hundred eighty-nine days. Seven hundred eighty-nine days of forgotten meals replaced with whiskey.

_He looks different._

Qrow tightened the cap on his empty flask, returning it to his pocket, the tree branch protesting his horrible habits.

Over one hundred twelve weeks. Over one hundred twelve weeks of sleepless nights filled with nightmares.

Qrow stared at every little detail on the man he’d thought he'd forgotten. _He was right there._

Twenty-six months. Twenty-six months of yearning for just a glimpse of life.

Oscar's left freckle arched when he smiled at a fellow student.

Over two _years_. Over two years obsessing for one singular goal.

At least some things never changed. Some things never left -

The object of his obsessions in sight at long last tore antagonistically at every fiber of Qrow’s being.

_Embrace him? He abandoned me like everyone else. Hit him? Gods, he was beautiful as ever. Kiss him…kidnap him…_

_How could he have left?_

Qrow felt the familiar stab in his chest sink deeper than before. Years he'd driven himself mad running scenarios of what had happen all that time ago. A lifetime ago. And he'd spent all that time alone - searching, begging any god that would listen to help him.

Yet there he was. Looking so... so _happy_. As if nothing had happened. 

So _normal_. As if he had never lived in the wild beyond civilization. 

He looked so ..._different._

His hair, starkly sun-kissed, was darker than before – proof of a new sheltered lifestyle. His skin, pale and smooth, bore no new scars, his old faint and hidden – proof of a new sedentary lifestyle. His eyes - his eyes were different; so very different: ancient, yet young; knowledgeable, yet optimistic.

The descriptions flooded to Qrow, but none seemed to matter. He'd found Oscar.

And he seemed _happy_ of all things.

_How was that possible?_

_He left._

Gods, he looked happy…and healthy…and pleased… and -

What right did Qrow have to storm back into his life if he were truly _happy?_

That wasn't Oscar's life. 

That's fucking what.

There's no way the chief strategist would settle on going to some stupid school in some stupid city populated by people he used to help murder.

If Qrow could just reach out to him-

Qrow clutched a hand over his chest, heart now racing at the mere thought of caressing the soft skin he’d ached for so long… too long.

No…

Something must have happened.

It had to.

It had to, it had to, it had to.

"Ozpin!" a blonde woman hissed loud enough for Oscar to hear, startling Qrow into a crouch to remain hidden.

She was young, but stressed, formal clothes wrinkled from too many rushed turnabouts, her blonde hair a neat attempt at a bun until all the stray hairs caught the light of the sun, her corset too tight, implying she may collapse without the support. She reminded Qrow of the last caretaker sent to ensure he didn’t get into trouble during hunting parties in another lifetime.

Qrow arched an eyebrow, stunned when Oscar responded. Carefully he hazarded leaning in for more information.

"Yes, Glynda?"

Bark gave way beneath Qrow’s started form, the man catching his breath, frozen in place praying for invisibility. 

_Ozpin._

He’d gotten a new identity.

"Sir, if you refuse to complete your classwork, then we must review notes from my recent meeting with-"

_He never would have left for work... he was happy before, wasn't he? I made him happy..._ Qrow repeated these words until he believed them. Whether to remember or lie to himself, he couldn't recall. He didn't care.

"But Glynda, I’m merely a student. Surely you wouldn't shoulder that burden on - " 

The voice cut off with a giggle, presumably due to the blonde's dagger-like glare.

"If you're only a student, then I'm sentencing you to detention. My office in thirty."

"You mean my off - "

The woman held up a warning finger, daring the man to finish his sentence.

Oscar would. He loved having his way challenging authority.

But he didn't.

He just smiled.

"If I hadn't worked for you for two decades, I would be tempted to put you in your place, sir," she threatened as she adjusted her glasses along the bridge of her nose.

"You'd be welcome to try, Glynda, but do remember this one's a bit spryer than my last one..." He grinned, stretching his limbs.

"Oh, for the love of - " She threw her hands in the air, reeling on her heal towards the tower that loomed over the courtyard. "One body works too much, the other not at all. I didn't believe you could be _more_ petulant as a child..."

“Come now, Glynda.” Oscar danced about the official, further taunting her on their return. “You said yourself I was fetching in this new body. ‘Oscar Pine, a breath of fresh air…Such a polite boy he was, I hope you don’t snuff him out too soon’ - I believe those were your words?”

“I did hope he would last longer, Sir. _He_ knew the value of my meeting minutes.”

Further exchanges fell on deaf ears, the world spinning, nausea washing over Qrow as he watched the pair disappear behind closed doors.

_Oh gods…_

Blood spit anew coursing down the trunk of the tree, Qrow’s fist buried in the destruction. The tears he’d shed were not enough.

Years. _Years._ And yet he’d never had he imagined…

Oscar’s body, so pure, so beautiful...physically everything identical to Qrow’s childhood obsession - each scar, each freckle.

_And that voice_. But the words, the actions, the mannerisms... they weren't _him_.  
But _how_?

_How had Qrow failed him?_

_Ozpin._ That’s what the woman had called him. 

Not Oscar. Not Mr. Pine. 

Ozpin.

_"Two decades,"_ she worked for him. Not two years, one month, three weeks, and six days.

She _knew him_ from before. Whatever _he_ was now.

Whatever _he_ was now, it wasn't _Oscar_. He wasn't the one Qrow spent every breath searching for. He wasn't the one Qrow killed for. The one he'd given up everything for.

This ...wasn't Oscar.

_How had Qrow allowed this to happen?_

Whatever he'd become, that wasn't Oscar anymore.

A lifetime devoted to finding the only person on the face of the planet he gave a shit about, and the moment reduced to a truth he had not thought of: Oscar’s body had been stolen from him, soul consumed slowly, by...

By what?

It was a fate worse than death. Each and every freedom stripped from you: control, will, a reason to live…

It was all too familiar to Qrow, each day heralding a new struggle; if he hadn't been wholly consumed by his raison d'être, he wouldn't still be drifting through life.

If he were in Oscar's position, he would give anything not to be.

Seven hundred eighty-nine days. Seven hundred eighty nine days of pure _torture._

And on the next, Qrow was going to save Oscar.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended reading song: “Afterlife” by Nothing But Thieves
> 
> Please mind the tags.

The next day Oscar had spent most of the morning catching up on school work (at Ozpin's insistence) until the boy forfeited in boredom, possession returning to Ozpin. Perhaps due to Oscar’s growing apathy, despite all his attempts, Ozpin was never able to convince Glynda the boy was in control of the body at times.

_Who the hell cares? He needs to learn this stuff too, so sit down and shut up and listen to the minutes,_ she'd demanded, before refusing to entertain any further excuses.

Eight hours later, Ozpin ran his hand across the back of his neck, smoothing the prickles rising for war against the cool evening breeze. It had been two years since he was murdered, his soul absorbing into his current form - a young man with an old mind, wise beyond his years - and yet Ozpin was still fine tuning the body's natural instincts. Ozpin couldn't say he was surprised by the choice, then again he rarely was after how many lives he'd taken, how many he'd learned from, how many he'd effectively cut short.

Ozpin had anticipated resistance, the plight of a host content with life, apathetic to the fate of the world should Salem succeed. But that was not the case. This boy, the chief strategist of a well-known bandit tribe, understood responsibility - the true value of what was at stake.

_What's the fate of the world in balance with the only thing we care about?_ Ozpin recalled the young man asking. At the time Ozpin had remained silent, preparing for the mental strife to which he'd grown far too accustomed over the centuries.

_Equal, because if you don't fight for one, you lose them both. I'll join you, Ozpin._

Ozpin was never certain what the young strategist was fighting for, but the wizard was indebted to the sacrifice.  
No, this body was a natural selection: the host sympathizing with Ozpin's cause, even willingly relinquishing control as if exhausted with a lifetime of responsibility. Oscar had been tired, very tired, almost welcoming Ozpin to relieve the boy from the burden of consciousness. Thankfully the bandit had no real attachments, no regrets dragging their body from its duties; indeed, Ozpin had been most fortunate.

And yet, the soul kept a secret. Just the one - a fond memory clouded in sorrow from what little Ozpin could reach as their souls merged. 

A crush perhaps? But it felt much deeper than that. It felt like -

Cold metal knocked all consciousness from the body, the remaining form crumbling to the ground.

*

Ozpin awoke with a jolt, his young form ready for action, already well versed in life or death situations. Cold seeped into his clothing from the moist earth floor beneath him, chilling to the bone. Musk and mold flooded his nostrils, blurry eyes struggled to focus in the dimly lit room…

_Were they underground?_ Adjusting slowly, more clues flooded his senses: a wine cellar.

_Something’s not right,_ the faint voice within murmured. Over the last two years, Oscar grew ever further, the two melding entities almost indistinguishable now.

But that damned secret – that fuzzy little thing – kept them separate.

Ozpin almost regretted it now, their hand reaching up to find blood behind their bandaged head.

_An enemy?_ Oscar wondered.

_A friend, I believe,_ Ozpin concluded upon inspecting the secure bandage – an honest attempt to remedy the injury. _We’re not bound._

As their vision focused, Ozpin saw a form crouched before them, concern paling gaunt features of a once handsome man.

_Oh no…_

_Oscar, what is it?_

_Qrow…_

“Qrow?” Ozpin offered, his confusion genuine.

“Oscar?!” The man lunged forward as if to embrace, stopping a heartbeat short. His hands shook in anticipation, or perhaps excitement, or perhaps horror? His chaos was impossible to translate.

“Oscar…” 

A trembling hand whipped tears from the foreigner’s eyes. “Is… is it you? No. No, it can’t be…You’re Ozpin. _Ozpin.”_

Qrow broke eye contact only long enough to count on his fingers, gnarled hands clawing up torn sleeves to count tally marks carved into his flesh before the harsh energy refocused on its target. “Se-seven hundred. Yes, Seven hundred ninety days.”

“…since what?” Ozpin hazarded, his attention locked on the fresh diagonal gash from which a bit of flesh still dangled freely.

_Keep it together, keep calm,_ Ozpin rehearsed – whether to himself, or Oscar - even he did not know.

“Since you took Oscar from me. He’s your prisoner, right? And now I’m going to save you, Oscar. All of you. All of this. From everything. Just like you saved me.” 

Qrow crept forward cradling Oscar’s face in Qrow’s scarred worn hands. “I’m going to save you.” He smiled despite the tears in his eyes.

The sunken cheeks, the unkept hair and beard, the trembling body, terrified eyes… 

Ozpin had been on this planet long enough to recognize madness when he saw it.

_Please, Ozpin. Please, I beg of you, give me control._

_He may be lost…_ Ozpin began in protest, unwittingly shrinking from the overbearing energy closing in on him.

_OZPIN!_

Oscar forced all his strength into possession.

“Qrow! Qrow! It’s me. It is Oscar.” 

He returned Qrow’s smile, cradling the young man’s hands against his face.

“N-no. No!” Qrow bellowed, rising with such force, his unkept nails sliced into Oscar’s cheeks, yet Oscar barely noticed. 

_His crimson eyes, so tortured...Gods how I missed them…_

“Qrow,” Oscar said, gently offering a steady hand to the wild form before him, the red orbs flickering from open hand to tarnished cheeks.

_He regrets hurting me already. Two years, and he’s still an open scroll._

“Come here, I’ll - ”

“D-don’t do this! Don’t do this to me! Not you! Not Oscar! You’re not! _You’re not Oscar!”_

His hands flew into his hair, tufts ripping from their roots, wild strands floating to the ground. “Oscar is dead! _YOU_ killed him!”

“No! Qrow, it’s me. I saved you, remember? From the tree? And - and you, you saved me from the tribe. Please, listen to me. Come here.” Oscar reached out again, now in earnest, to the broken man before him.

_Please...please Gods, don’t let me too late…_

Qrow relinquished his tufts of torn hair, hands sinking to his face, nails painting bloodied trails in their wake. “You… my whole life revolved around you. It was only ever you. And you. You promised. We’d go.” Qrow’s voice quivered barely a whisper.

“I - I… I did. And now we _are_ together. Just like we promised.”

“Do you know how many times I replayed our last ten minutes together?”

“…no…” Oscar ached, knowing he should have done the same; wishing he could have done the same.

“There’s not enough room on my body to count.”

“Qrow…”

"’When will we be done?’ I asked. ‘Soon,’ you said. ‘Then?’ I asked. ‘We'll leave,’ you said.” Qrow waited, the words hanging heavy in the air. 

_Oscar,_ Ozpin’s voice warned softly.

“You never said we’d go together.” Qrow’s voice broke, Oscar feeling internal shards shattering every which way, tearing Qrow to pieces until he was nothing but more than a haunting husk.

_No, that’s not how it was supposed to be...I did this for you, so you could live, so _we_ could live…together..._

Oscar took his time responding, too afraid a heavy breath would disintegrate the frail frame, “But surely you knew - Qrow you had to know.”

_Oscar… he’s unstable._ Ozpin warned again as Qrow approached them again.

_I would have come back for him._

_Oscar, don’t._

“We can be together now,” Oscar pressed, ignoring Ozpin.

_No. I can’t allow that. He’ll be a detriment to -_

“Really?” Qrow’s voice broke past Ozpin’s thoughts as he sank to the floor, Qrow’s knees interlocking with Oscar’s, the young man’s tears now freely flowing from the strangled conflict.

_I’m not too late._

Oscar pulled Qrow into a tight embrace. He’d traded the world for this man, and in the process, he’d lost him. What the hell kind of trade was that? “Qrow…” Oscar whispered, his words of devotion failing him.

But whatever thoughts he’d wished to utter vanished when the knife sunk into his back, piercing straight through to his chest.

“’Surely you knew…’ you don’t even talk like him. You aren’t Oscar. Nice try… you almost had me.”

_Heart… he hit our…_ Ozpin faded as the knife tore from their chest.

Oscar choked, his blood seeping into the damp earth as he collapsed against Qrow, his chest throbbing. With the last of his strength, Oscar stroked his love’s cheek _as I should have all those years ago_. 

“I lo…” he gasped for air desperate for final words as he watched Qrow fondle the knife, tip against his own chest, the gorgeous crimson eyes Oscar had longed for warning him of the final intent.

“We’ll be together soon, Oscar…” Qrow’s final words sank as deep as the knife.

_No, we won’t…_ Ozpin answered softly - the sacrificial truth more agonizing than any torture Oscar could imagine.


End file.
